Twisted Little Man
by ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: A Canadian writing an American Western about an English period-drama. What could go wrong? -or- There came a time in a man's life when the sole company of his horse on a cold night spent on the hard-packed dirt no longer held the same appeal as it once did. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Thomas guided his horse into the crowded stream of the thoroughfare. He and Dilly were just one of many making their way through the mud, despite the late hour of the evening. The horse's gait was slow and cautious against the unstable bodies going this way and that.

Lanterns hung from the rafters of the timber buildings that buffeted the path, their golden light emitting fuzzy halos in the purpling dusk. In the windows of some of the stores flickered individual candles, beckoning patrons to come inside and spend their money.

A few finer dressed ladies, with handkerchiefs tightly clutched in dainty fists covering their mouths, travelled separately along the wooden boards paralleling the store fronts lining the path. Even from the middle of the thoroughfare, where the mud rushed up to greet its travellers, Thomas could tell the difference in wealth of these women dressed in vibrant frocks from those women dressed in subdued browns who brushed close past Dilly.

It was slow moving, Thomas competing with fellow travellers for space as they made their way deeper into the heart of the small settlement. Without complaint, Thomas watched those passing him with a sly eye. The throng of faces afforded Thomas a shroud of anonymity that was an unusual luxury; both the strong angles of Thomas' pale face and the shiny, ebony of Dilly's coat drew more eyes than was welcome on most days.

The powerful suction of mud pulled Dilly's shoes deep into the messy quagmire, making each step a tedious struggle. Beneath him, Thomas sensed her displeasure for such an activity, the horse preferring the dry grasses of the trails.

Thomas knew they shouldn't be in such a town, where so many people could see his face. But their path, however dirty and uncertain, was unavoidable. For as much as he valued the clandestine shade of the trails, Thomas couldn't bear the loneliness they sentenced for another night longer. There came a time in a man's life when the sole company of his horse on a cold night spent on the hard-packed dirt no longer held the same appeal as it once did. It had little way for conversation, between Dilly and him, and cold once the fire dwindled to embers. Thomas spent too much of the night staring into the flames until his face was tight and eyes burned.

Farther down the main artery of town, Thomas spotted what prompted him to detour through this shanty town – a warm place where he could drink and possibly put his head to a pillow. Carson's stood taller than any of its neighbouring buildings, boasting three floors, the last of which featured a wide balcony. Through the night, Thomas could spy a tall man with a protruding belly bracing his arms against the railing, surveying the street below. Only an imposing man could cut a silhouette like that.

The saloon itself was radiating sound and light out into the path, a beacon of warmth in the chill of the night. Thomas tied Dilly to the post before it, for now, not wanting to wait to find a livery stable to house her. She eyed the water trough that sat before it – her tail swishing twice fast when the murky brown colour of it revealed several blowflies bigger than flattened dollars floating listlessly across its surface. Thomas considered it barely fit to dampen a fire, but for now it would have to do.

"I am sorry, Dilly," he said as he looped the final knot of her reigns. They both knew it did not compare to the cool rivers from the trail. Thomas brushed the length of her nose, "I promise I will make it up to you."

Dilly flicked her eye up to his with a look that could not be mistaken for anything other than _you better_. She once stamped her forefoot into the mud and looked away, dismissing Thomas to leave her to sulk in her own situation – a poor and becursed animal.

Knowing she needed no help in pitying herself, Thomas left her to wallow, making his way up the creaking steps and through the doors of the saloon.

Tinny and out of tune notes trampled their way from the upright piano position in the corner of the saloon, opposite to where Thomas now stood in the door. Raucous laughter leaving unclean and gaping mouths accompanied its ragtime and created an oppressive clamour that Thomas did not care for. Through the murky haze of smoke refracted in the lamps' glow, he saw that the tables were full of wind-swept and dirty men whose backs, bent from years of labour under a hot sun, did not inhibit their ability to drink, to play cards, or to be objectionable in a general sense. Carson's was popularised by patrons that Thomas usually steered clear of – those driven wild in the foolish attempt to work gold from the nearby rivers.

Thomas' bad temper weighed heavily at the corners of his mouth. It was a cantankerous feeling brought on by having expectations dashed and could only be solved by drink.

Finding an empty stool at the bar, Thomas relieved his hat from his head and sat heavily upon the seat. He shifted, figuring he had more sand in his underwear than could be found in the trails.

A greasy woman with a strange plume of curls adorning the top of her head, dressed curiously in trousers and a vest, stood behind the bar. She turned from her hushed dealings with another patron - one far dustier and malnourished than he – and looked at Thomas with the poorly concealed disdain that came naturally only to bartenders. Though it was clear Thomas was new to his seat and without drink, she made no rush to serve him. Thomas eyed the pistol decorating her hip, its meaning obvious, something telling him her draw would rival the best hired guns in California.

She finally moved towards him with a succinct economy of movement and gave him a look.

"A mysterious stranger, hailing from only God knows where, has seated himself at this humble bar, looking – I might add – cooler than hot, polished shit. To what do we owe the pleasure."

Her tone was unsavoury, halfway lost between aggression and jest, and just heard over the crowd. The false comradery forced upon Thomas, like he was an old friend returning from a long journey, was just another offence Thomas had to endure at Carson's.

"Whiskey, please."

"Straight to the point, I can appreciate that in a man," the bartender said as she slammed a cloudy glass in front of Thomas, filling it with an amber liquid from an unmarked bottle, "No need for a man to monologue determinedly when all ears are closed to such natterings."

Thomas eyed this strange bartender coolly as he took a sip of his drink. He swished the rotgut despite its burn to dislodge some of the more tenacious grit that had collected from the day's ride.

The bartender could heed her own advice.

"As you can see, this saloon is full of men who are not interested in the words of others, unless they glimmer with the shine of gold assured to be soon in hand."

A shriek pierced over the din, and Thomas turned to see a dusty man with a giggling whore half his age over his shoulder climb a set of rickety stairs.

"Or glisten with the promise of pussy." The way the bartender shrugged, easy and unperturbed by these happenings, soured Thomas' stomach.

Hoping to fill at least one emptiness for another, Thomas downed his drink, "Another, please."

"I have to admit you have me hooked, mysterious stranger. What's your name?" She poured and leaned against the sticky bar, untroubled by the liquid seeping into her vest, her voice still as bored as it ever was.

Thomas couldn't help stiffening at the question, hand halted halfway between the bar and his mouth. He swirled the amber liquid and stared into the glass, playing off the movement's hiccup as intentional. It would not be wise to disclose his name.

"Kent," He used the name of a man he once knew. Now gone, somewhere in Montana, Thomas felt his absence just as sharply as the first time the hard, cruel tip of Kent's colt jabbed into Thomas' ribs, just as tenderly as the last time the chapped, chaste lips of Kent brushed Thomas' own. His eyes raised to meet the woman's, at once daring her to question it and insisting it was true.

She didn't blink, "And what brings you to Carson's, Kent?"

His second glass went as quickly as the first, and Thomas could feel it pooling hotly in his stomach, slowly draining into his extremities until it dripped thick as molasses through the muscles of his calves.

"Business, miss," Thomas sneered into his now empty cup, "is what brings me to this sorry excuse of an establishment. Business – none of which – is yours."

Thomas chose not to tell her of his ties to the Crawleys or the circumstances that necessitated his immediate evacuation of Downton. Likewise, he kept his plans to head towards Sacremento before following the Siskiyou Trail north into Oregon and possibly as far as the Yukon to himself.

"No, it won't due to call me miss here; you'll be laughed out of town. The name's O'Brien."

"Then, Ms. O'Brien, if you would kindly leave the bottle for the remainder of the evening, I will gladly pay you for the damage I make unto it."

His bid for solitude had no effect, accustomed as she was to the crude and sullen, and she remained before him, appraising. A gleam of a dollar sign in her eye. "We have darts and cards, for which I can deal you in, if it isn't above your sad sack's sorry disposition. Or, if you need relaxation of a different kind, I can always point you in the right direction."

Clumsy though it was, Thomas could tell her lines usually worked, easy as it was to inspire debauchery in the heads of drifters – desperate and made stupid from long periods of time alone wrestling with Nature.

"I will partake in none of what you offer and ask only that I be left alone."

"Well, you can't blame me for being hospitable," she pushed away from the bar, her irritation only showing in the quick twist of her mouth as she turned to her other patrons.

Thomas was glad to be rid of her, her sharp eyes seeing too much and her bored tone revealing too little.

A third and a fourth drink were knocked back, and eventually the scowl loosened from his brow and his body warmed. Tip-toeing the line of drunk, he let his glass remain empty for the time being, enjoying the peace afforded by cheap whiskey – his mind quieter than before. The noise behind him had distorted softly, as loud sounds usually do after long exposure.

Thomas could think it half-way decent, if it weren't for the ever present smell of sweat hanging in the air.

He felt before he saw a mass of indistinguishable shape drop into the seat next to him. Swivelling his head to the side, he had to let the room catch up with a rolling blink before he could assess his neighbour. Thomas immediately noticed the way the man sat turned in towards him, as if already in conversation. The stranger had sandy blonde hair – straw thin – that was brushed back from a strong brow and dark eyes that skittered between the bar and O'Brien before they found Thomas' own. A naturally upturned mouth smeared dusty pink across an otherwise tanned face.

Unlike Thomas, who took pains to dress in a linen shirt covered with a vest and suit jacket, clean despite the hard travelling, his seatmate wore a dirty set of blues and his hands were discoloured with work.

It suited him.

"You're new," the man said, his voice much deeper than Thomas expected. His eyes flittered across Thomas' form, from head to toe.

Despite himself, Thomas could feel his lips curve upwards, and he turned bodily towards the stranger with a nod.

"That your horse out front?" he asked with a gesture towards the door, his fingers starting to tap out frantic rhythm against the bar.

When Thomas nodded again with a bemused smirk, the man huffed and swivelled towards the bar.

He ran his dirty hands through his hair once. Losing an internal debate within himself before he turned back, eyes narrowing.

"All you cowboy types are the same. All style and bravado, caring little for anything but yourself and the source of the next gold piece," he pushed himself off of the stool, "I should hope someone steals her from you."

With a final rap against the bar, the stranger turned and made his way towards the door.

Thomas watched him go, paying particular attention to the fit of the man's slacks. He had a peculiar gait, as if the stranger wasn't meant for the hard labour he wore like a set of armor. With a private smile, Thomas picked up his glass before remembering he had yet to fill it. He slugged back one more shot quickly before he signalled for O'Brien, miraculously only having to wait just a moment before she deigned to move before him.

"Are there any beds to rent tonight—free of company?"


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Thomas discovered he had misplaced Dilly; or, rather more precisely, Dilly was absent from where Thomas had last left her.

He had left early the room that he had secured with O'Brien the night before, his neighbours having decided that dawn was a good enough time as any to start arguing about what was owed to whom; and as Thomas cared not to discover the outcome of such a squabble, he had risen with the sun, slipped on his trousers, and clipped his gun belt to sit low on his narrow hips. He had slipped down the back stairs and emerged in the open space behind Carson's formidable structure, looking towards the slap-dash sheltering that the owners of the establishment thought would serve as a stable for its patrons and where Thomas had deposited his horse last night. When he returned, ready to greet Dilly a good morning, however, he had found her absent, having sometime before absconded from her ties and wandered out of her stall, through the closed doors of the stable without so much as a bray goodbye.

It was all very peculiar and unlike Dilly, as doors were a particular difficulty for her.

He squatted and examined the hay that littered the floor of her former stall. Thomas spit into the straw, recognising the deep impressions in its strands for what they were—tracks that could only have been left by man. Someone, while Thomas slept dead to the world under the deep dark pull of whiskey, had come and taken Dilly. He stood and brushed at his knees.

That would not do.

The heels of his boots ricocheted like bullets against the wooden floors as he strode into Carson's. What few patrons remained, half sitting and sprawled over tables as litter abandoned, lifted their heads and squinted at his entrance—more bewildered than angry for the disruption. A bored woman in a revealing slip—no older than sixteen, Thomas figured—watched him from a table in the corner with jaded eyes that took in the cut of his suit for longer than he appreciated.

Extinguished were the hanging lamps that had lent the room some sense of warmth the night before, and the unforgiving light of the morning revealed it to be a lonely and tired place with its wood stained in whiskey and spent tobacco. It was little more than a room with an assortment of tables and chairs, and Thomas was saddened he had spent so much of his night warming a stool within the space.

With fresh insult blooming salty in his mouth, he turned in distaste towards the bar. He found O'Brien staring at him with an eyebrow raised, half turned from the same sickly man she had been whispering with when Thomas first arrived. Her acquaintance was also staring, sight greedy with the idea that it was his god given right to pin Thomas with such a blatant look.

"Did the whiskey find its retribution this morning, Mr. Kent?" O'Brien looked pleased to think this.

At her question her acquaintance picked up a broom and pushed it across the floor, for what little good it would do. Thomas watched the man take upon such a useless endeavour, for a moment observing the dust and sand bloom in the hazy beams of sunlight breaking through the few windows. He was halfway disappointed that the man had left on his own volition, robbing Thomas of the satisfaction of telling him to make himself scarce. He pinned the contemptible barmaid with the full heat of his glare.

"Where is my horse?" He didn't deign her question worthy of answering—the whiskey, while still giving heat to his limbs, was not the source of his fever.

"Your horse?" She set a small glass before her and filled it with a clear liquid, "Why, you left it out back, if I remember correctly."

His steps slowly devoured the space between them as he crossed the floor to reach the bar. O'Brien looked nonplussed as she swallowed her drink.

"My horse is not out back, as I had left her," He placed his palms onto the still sticky surface of the bar, containing a grimace, and let his eyes bore into hers, "so I will ask again: Where. Is. My. Horse, _Miss_ O'Brien?"

She held his eyes and the corner of her mouth curled marginally, as if his display amused her. He felt something burn hotly against his ribs, and he understood it to be a wrath eager for release pressing against his chest.

"Are you accusing me of stealing your horse?" She didn't wait for his answer, "I've no want for your horse, _Mister_ Kent, for I have no place to be but here. Perhaps, instead, you should reconsider you knot-tying skills after drinking from my bottle of whiskey."

Whatever mirth pulled at her mouth soured on her lips, leaving them pursed in annoyance, "You best remember where exactly you are when you make an accusation like that."

Thomas remembered the gun that hung at her hip and felt the weight of his own.

"Now, Sarah, that isn't any way to treat a man distraught over the loss of his beloved horse." A deep baritone sounded from behind Thomas.

He turned to look over his shoulder and saw a man dressed entirely in black, his suit fitted and faintly pinstriped, standing at the foot of the stairs. Thomas instantly recognised from his paunch as the one belonging to the man on the balcony the evening of his arrival. He hadn't heard him descend, nor did he know how long he had been listening.

"Forgive me my barmaid, for she can be ill-tempered in the morning." The man walked towards Thomas, who could tell that the man had a profound capacity for asperity despite his current display of diplomacy. Thomas figured it was a character trait necessary in the running of a successful business that catered to the kind of clientele Carson's favoured, but it singled him out as a man untrustworthy. Meanwhile Thomas could tell Carson was recognising some arcane qualities buried deep within his skin. In the time it took him to walk over, he had measured the profile Thomas cut and found him lacking in a glaring way. It was a realisation that made Thomas feel small, almost physically shrinking from the man, despite him being a stranger. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin slightly to compensate, angry at the man for the reaction he had caused.

"Mr. Carson," The man nodded in introduction but didn't offer his hand to shake, "And you are, from what I gather, Mr. Kent."

"Pleasure," Thomas grunted, feeling anything but at their meeting.

Mr. Carson's responding hum was so low it nearly vibrated Thomas' chest, revealing that he knew the sentiment to be false and perhaps felt the same, "You are missing your horse, yes?"

Thomas nodded.

"And you had last left her at our stables?"

When Thomas nodded a second time, Mr. Carson narrowed his eyes. Thomas thought it was to accuse the disappearance of his horse as a mess of his own making with its roots tangled in neglect. He bristled at the charge and the eventual implication that Thomas was a liar angling to swindle such a lecherous business.

"Richards!"

The man pushing the broom spooked and looked up from his task, "Yes, Mr. Carson?" Thomas found his voice to be as weak as his biceps looked braced against the handle of the broom.

"Why is this man's horse missing from the stables?"

Richards looked puzzled, eyes jumping from Mr. Carson and Thomas—his lower lip trembling pendulous in anticipation of the owner's response. When his answer wasn't prompt enough, Carson asked again, only louder.

"I—I don't know, sir?"

Thomas found himself part of a very unusual tableau, unsure of how Richards fit into Dilly's disappearance. He watched curiously as O'Brien avoided the exchange, keeping her eyes to the drink-stained bar, chaste in solidarity with her targeted colleague. Looking back towards Mr. Carson he saw a man whose plenteous black brown was furrowed, belying a violence lurking in an otherwise calm posture. Thomas wished to step back and distance himself from such volatility, but he didn't dare make a move.

Mr. Carson stared at Richards for a time—long enough that the man began to tremble under the weight.

"Mr. Carson, I—I"

"Go to my office," Mr. Carson said.

"Mr. Car—"

"Go to my office," he enunciated, "and wait for me there."

Richards took to the stairs slowly and Thomas watched the ascent of a man doomed. Mr. Carson waited until the creak of the steps halted and were replaced by the groan of the floorboards of the second storey. Then he returned his gaze to Thomas, who bore the weight of his attention with considerable grace.

"My sincerest apology, Mr. Kent. It is challenging to find reliable help here," Mr. Carson clasped his shoulder and Thomas found himself directed towards the door, "Your room will be complimentary until your search proves successful."

Thomas blinked against a particularly bright beam of sun, having been positioned before the exit. He stepped out from under the heavy hand of Carson's and adjusted his duster, mindful that Carson watched him do so.

"Of which, I have no doubt it will be. Your horse is bound to be somewhere. Until then, don't hesitate to ask anything of O'Brien." Mr. Carson turned, heading towards the stairs, "Good luck in reclaiming your horse, Mr. Kent!"

For a moment, Thomas had a mind to go back into Carson's and demand from the man immediate compensation for his horse, but as he had been effectively ejected from the bar, Thomas was confident that he had all but himself to rely upon to find Dilly. He didn't want to depend upon the man in any way, for as much as Carson had discovered him wanting in some profound manner, so too had Thomas found him lacking. Carson was not a man to be engaged, and Thomas should avoid him at all costs, accepting his free accommodations as fair and moving on to find Dilly by himself.

Thomas stood for a moment on the deck of Carson's before the full weight of the task before him revealed itself. Thomas sucked at his teeth as he surveyed the crowded thoroughfare before him, arms braced on his hips. He was in a predicament. Without Dilly there was no way for him to leave this town this morning as he had intended, and leaving without her was as unsavoury as it was unfeasible. He had money, but none of it could be spared on a new horse; he had collected and saved just enough cash to push him north and nothing more. A new mare of Dilly's calibre would set him back enough so that he'd never make it as far as he wanted, stuck within the long the reach of the Crawleys. But without a horse at all he was stuck here, even closer to their grasping hands, for the long miles he'd have to traverse to reach his destination were impossible by foot.

The consistent tic of the second hand had an ominous echo in his mind as Thomas felt himself wasting time he couldn't afford. He had already spent too much time in this shanty town, and if he were to find Dilly, barring that she was to be found, he'd be spending even more than he preferred. With time came people, and Thomas knew he couldn't afford to be making any ties with anyone. He needed to leave the south without a trace.

It was a damn unacceptable state of affairs.

But a man could do no good on an empty stomach, and Thomas intended to correct that. He would have his fill of breakfast and then begin his search for Dilly properly, for he had to hope that Dilly was still in camp, waiting for him instead of any of the alternatives.

He pushed his way through the walking stream and made his way towards the boarding house he had seen upon his arrival. He remembered seeing a chalk sign listing the price of a plate of food on the side of its building and hoped it would still be available. Upon entering its doors, Thomas realised he was not the only man to have seen the sign and thought it just as appetizing.

A long line of hungry bellies, clothed in dirty linens and pressed suits alike, stood waiting to be served by a short, round woman with a shock of orange curls bursting through her bonnet. As they passed her, they would extend an empty plate with a polite silence and a coin and she would serve up something resembling biscuits and gravy.

Thomas took up a plate from a stack nearing the end of the line and joined its queue, waiting to be served. While he stood, he considered Dilly and where she might be. He thought about her and wondered under whose hands she had wandered away—whose feet now sullied her stirrups. Jealousy was an intense and familiar feeling that flushed his system with a distracting heat, making it hard for Thomas to think.

It was the strength of these thoughts that made Thomas oblivious to the keen stare of the server's companion at first, but eventually the familiar weight of eyes pressed heavy against his person, as if the gaze pushed physically against his skin, chipped away against his concentration. Thomas shifted and moved to do the only thing he knew how; he looked up to challenge it.

A balding man of middling age and middling description had sidled up beside the woman with a new tray of biscuits that were still steaming. He wore suspenders over a white shirt stained at the belly, suggesting time spent wrestling with cookery at a counter waist high. His sleeves were rolled up and pinned at the elbows, with no vest or jacket to speak of. Though he wasn't doing anything to conceal his astonished glare, no one besides Thomas had yet to observe his gaping and in turn, follow his gaze to notice Thomas.

To his extreme displeasure, the man opened his mouth.

"You're new, aren't you?"

Thomas contemplated the unnecessary question with as much intensity as he considered the man's hairline—which is to say, with very little of anything except annoyed indifference.

The man took Thomas' silence as encouragement so he continued, "Only, I haven't seen you here before, and I see most people when they come." He set the biscuits down, allowing his full concentration to fall upon Thomas, "You didn't stay the night here, did you? Oh! Or are you planning to stay the night… tonight?"

"Molesley," his woman friend, still serving another patron, all but screeched, "Leave the poor man alone! Go see if Daisy's finished the beans."

The man—Molesley, his name rolling ungainly on the tongue attached to the voice of his mind—had the presence to look mollified and left, giving Thomas a friendly nod suggesting that there would be more of his curiosity at a time better suited for questions.

"You'll have to excuse Mr. Molesley. He can get a little over familiar when things excite him," the cook said, grabbing Thomas' plate. She loaded it with an extra biscuit and drowned it in a thick, white gravy. On top of it, she spooned out a good amount of baked beans swimming in molasses, quickly spreading into the gravy until their combined sauces filled the plate. Thomas' stomach gurgled in greeting.

She smiled having heard it, "Welcome to Patmore's," and then turned to grab the next empty plate on offer, "There's coffee further on," and Thomas felt distinctly dismissed from her presence.

True to her word, there was a small station filled with cups and a large, silver urn. After filling one for himself, he surveyed the small seating area provided and realised that he would have to share a table in order to eat.

Most tables were at capacity, full of men conversing over their shared breakfasts. Thomas spotted a table that was occupied by only one man with bright red hair near a window. Thomas sat with his head down and began to shovel his baked beans into his mouth with the slow, methodical motions of someone who wanted people to think he was engrossed with his food and was not to be engaged in conversation of any kind. He lifted his coffee mug to his lips, instantly grimacing at its contents.

"Welcome to Patmore's, home to the first coffee that could stand on its own," his seatmate said with a grin. He lifted his own cup in a cheer and swallowed thickly around the viscous fluid.

"It's like tar," Thomas said, tilting his mug to examine how the coffee swirled, moving like no coffee Thomas had ever seen.

"I like to think it a black, bitter custard," the stranger said, "then that way it's like dessert in the morning."

An inane thing to hope for—out here, at this time in the day—Thomas thought, but his companion was young enough to be pleased with the thought of something sweet before noon. Thomas chose to find sweetness in the beans instead and continued to spoon his breakfast into his awaiting mouth.

"What brings you to camp?"

Thomas glared at the ginger. "Nothing brings me here, so you can wipe the smile that suggests you think something has off your face. You don't know me; I don't know you, so let us return to our beans in silence."

"All right," he said around a mouthful of biscuit, hands still clutching his cutlery lifted in supplication, "Forget I asked."

Their moment was interrupted by the pull of the chair next to them, legs dragging against the wooden floorboards in a piercing manner. Another man dropped into the seat, placing his plate on the table before him.

"Hey there, Alfred," he said before turning towards with a nod Thomas, "Mister,"

The redhead—the titular Alfred—moved closer to the new addition, leaning over the table as if to create some secrecy in th table that wasn't there. Thomas stared in distaste as he watched Alfred's linen shirt come dangerously close to meeting his gravy-filled plate. "Don't dare speak to this one, Dunn. He's an ornery fuck."

Since that was largely true, Thomas largely ignored Alfred's comment.

The other man looked towards Thomas with a bemused smirk, "No, I'm sure he's just sore somebody's taken his horse".

Breakfast forgotten, Thomas glared, "How—?"

"Only fools think to leave their horses in the hut that Carson calls a stable behind his place," the man said, "I happened to be in Carson's when you stormed in—but I suppose you were busy and didn't see me."

Thomas straightened in his hard chair and the legs of it scratched against the flooring, giving soundtrack to the resentment for having been marked a chump by a man who frequented Carson's in the middle of the morning. "You're calling me a fool?"

The man smiled sympathetically as he cut into a biscuit with the side of his fork, uncaring for the tension that now ironed Thomas' spine erect as his eyes followed only his food , "Yes, but we all were when we were new to town. You learn to realise where Carson's strengths fall, and where they do not. Just like everything else in the camp, it has its purpose, and horse stabling is not one of Carson's."

Thomas set his spoon down on the side of his plate and considered the stranger's words to find their hidden intent but found no such malice undertone. The man was merely making conversation, helpful at that; though Thomas found pretence in the implication that like the former new visitors of the town, he too would stay long enough to become learned of the town's peculiarities.

"So what, his horse's stolen?" Alfred asked of his companion, having deemed Thomas undesirable in dialogue and set to avoid interaction with him at all costs.

Dunn nodded but asked of Thomas, "Have you begun your search for it yet?"

"Her," Thomas clarified for reason he didn't understand, "And no, not yet. I figured I would start after breakfast. Perhaps canvass the local businesses to see if anyone had seen her."

"If anyone has, it'd be Price. He'd know the breed, how many hands it stood stall, and what it ate for breakfast with just a look—and he'd be looking."

"Where would I find this Price?"

"At a real stable," Dunn indulged in a smile which Thomas allowed, "he runs the town's horse livery. You can find it just off the main road, about a quarter mile east of here, past the hardware store."

Thomas nodded in appreciation, having thought that the stables would be the best place to start his search; or—he would have, had he started to think about strategies beyond dulling the aches of hunger. He stood and downed his coffee without a thought, the thickness surprisingly complimentary to the clinging syrup of the beans left on his tongue. He tipped his hat in the direction of his helpful seatmate and said a passing thank you before making for the door.

"Hope you find her, Mister," the stranger said, fishing for a name.

Thomas waved without turning his back and left the man's lure for the next stranger.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas found the stable some ways east of the hardware store just where Dunn said he would. The air of the stable was like that of any other—hot and humid with the stench of hay and manure and horse. It wasn't a smell that Thomas disliked; he had spent more than enough time tending to horses for it to provide comfort, associating these odours with brief, quiet moments away from the road and any outstanding tasks. The heavy layers spoke of the honest and methodical care he could provide for Dilly.

With life such as it was now, the stable was not a place he frequented often, but its charms still had its sway over his heart. This one in particular was darkened, lighted with only the determined beams of sunlight that created misty shafts through the crooked slats of the building. It illuminated a refuge from the busy lanes Thomas had walked to get here, and its quiet was thick and enveloping in contrast to the sharp sounds of the town.

Several horses were in the stalls. The ones closest to the door turned their heads to watch him enter, sceptical of the new addition. His presence as a strange man without a horse was not appreciated by some; others were more invested in their feed. A quick survey of their faces revealed that Dilly was not in their company.

From beyond the stalls, deep within the stable, Thomas could hear the dense sounds of labour overflowing from the back rooms. His keen ear picked up a grunt within its kinetic jumble, confirming the presence of the farrier, Price. He followed the sound of struggle, and the horses that were not Dilly watched him as he passed by.

At the end of the stalls there was a sharp corner that led to a smaller room—a workspace. He could tell by the smell of smoke that there was a burning fire somewhere in the room. A long wooden bench ran along the side of one wall, littered with various tools and equipment. From the other wall, larger tools, reigns, and harnesses hung from hooks. In the middle, Dilly stood unimpressed. Her dark eyes took in Thomas where he stopped in the doorway and she huffed as if to say, _took you long enough_. She looked unharmed from where he was standing—impressive even. Her dark coat greedily absorbed the dim light around her like a black hole, strengthening her stance and her stare. As her owner, Thomas was assured that he had been properly represented during his absence.

She took an ungainly step forward that spoke of none of her usual grace, and once Thomas looked beyond Dilly, he recognised it was because her back leg was raised and bent at the knee, held in place by a man bent over her foot. This man had yet to realise that Thomas had entered, so he made to rectify that.

He kicked at the wooden doorjamb, letting its flat sound resound before he coolly greeted, "Mornin'."

The man, still bent over Dilly's shoes and straddling her leg, barely looked over his shoulder in greeting. It was enough to reveal the judicious brown eyes that had criticised him at Carson's the night before.

Thomas felt a fool as he remembered their brief conversation at the bar. He had read the handsome planes of his face far more readily than the insinuation of his words, taken in by his awkward, impatient charm. The irritated man had all but divulged his plot to steal Dilly out from under him, and Thomas had merely sat there with a lazy, whiskey-fuelled grin on his face and nodded encouragement.

"You," he said, voice acrid with this recognition, "You're Price."

For a moment the man returned to his work without a word, and his dismissal ignited a cold fury at Thomas' sternum. Thomas took a few steps towards him, pausing to rub at Dilly's nose in greeting before rounding her flank and stopping before the man. The back of the room housed a crackling fire, constructed within a smithy's forge with an anvil and hammer.

Finally, the farrier stopped his work with a put upon sigh and stood to face Thomas. As he straightened he flicked his head upwards to dislodge his hair from his face, and the strands fell back in a tangle atop his head. In his hand he loosely held a well-used hoof knife with a curved blade that looked deceivingly dull in the dim light.

Thomas looked to Dilly's foot, "I ain't paying for that."

Price's lip rippled in annoyance, "The hell you are."

"You stole my horse," Thomas said, letting a grim smile emerge, "That's a hangable offence. I could get you drawn through the town and killed for this."

The grip on the knife's handle increased slightly before Price placed it on his wooden tool bench. He brushed at his soiled chaps and crossed his arms.

"But you won't," he said, sure of himself, "Can't."

He leaned in, close enough to reveal the beginnings of sun damage at the corner of his eyes.

"You think a sly and oily stranger such as yourself can just ride in and accuse a pioneer of this town of theft? Your name has no status here, _Kent_, not against the town's dependable farrier."

"Mr. Carson and his barmaid know my horse went missing. There's proof."

Price remained unperturbed, "For all they know you asked for my services last night. Who hasn't forgotten words exchanged after the plying of whiskey? You merely forgot that you asked of me to care for her."

Price turned to his bench, confidently offering his back to Thomas as he fiddled with his tools. The wide planes of his shoulders filled out his work shirt well, and the ties of the apron he wore revealed a narrow waist. Thomas quickly averted his eyes when Price turned and leaned against the edge of the bench.

"You've taken care with her, I'll admit, which is better than I can say for most," Price said as he looked towards Dilly, "She's beautiful."

"Dilly," Thomas said, offering her name without meaning to.

"Dilly," The word pooled out from the first genuine smile to grace his lips. He walked towards her and stroked her neck, "So that's what you are."

To Thomas' dismay, Dilly didn't rear from his touch nor did she grumble under it. In fact, it looked as though she pushed into Price's hand, hungry for the attention.

Traitor.

Thomas moved until he was across from Price with Dilly in between them. He placed a warm hand on her snout, reminding her of who exactly owned her. For the moment, she remained generously unbiased and allowed both men to stroke her.

"Finish up what you're doing, and we'll call it even."

"No."

Thomas blinked, "No?"

"No. It isn't my fault her shoe is almost worn through. That blame lays on you. Had I not taken her, you would have still made your smug way to my stables today, and Dilly would have still found her place in this room."

Throughout his speech, his eyes remained on Dilly's coat. Finally, he raised them to meet Thomas' and leaned closer, "So we're even when you pay."

Thomas found himself leaning in unconsciously as he sneered, "What about the price of the grievances you caused me? Let me list the ways: I paid for an unnecessary night at Carson's stables, I intended to ride out at dawn, and you've caused Dilly considerable anxiety. That's three marks against your name, Price."

He scoffed, "I did her a service rescuing her from Carson's supposed stables. Besides which, she hasn't yet complained."

Dilly had the decency to look uncomfortable and remained staring before her.

"And if my actions mean there's one less desperate man ravaging California for her gold, then I consider it a job well done."

Price's eyes flickered down to Thomas' mouth and they held to his red lips for just a moment too long. He quickly raised them back to Thomas' eyes. After which, the way they erratically moved across the room—slightly rounded—gave Thomas cause to smile. He let the silence grow between them.

"Or are you just sore that I didn't offer you a drink when you sat next to me?"

"What?" He pushed away from Dilly and turned back towards his bench, "Don't be ridiculous."

This, Thomas entertained, was a critical misstep, as the rosy flush creeping up the back of Price's neck belied his disgust. Feeling his smile broaden into something toothy, Thomas pressed his lips tight as he followed the man towards his bench.

"You could've just asked, but then… allowing for that first liberty, where would you have then stopped? Would a second drink have satisfied you, or would you have taken more? What would the town think if this sly and oily stranger said you kissed him?"

"You wouldn't," The blush bloomed softly cross his cheeks, "I mean, _I_ wouldn't… kiss you. They'd know that."

Price shrunk then, his shoulders turning in almost unperceptively. His eyes skittered in avoidance as they did last night—though the brown of their irises were softer today than the dark pits they were in Carson's. His jaw worked, revealing a slight under bite pushing his bottom lip out. It made him look younger. And kissable. The man clearly had little experience lying, broadcasting his emotions from every expression and twitching limb for anyone to see.

Thomas pushed in to his advantage, crowding Price's space until the man retreated and his back was pressed against his work bench once again, arms braced against its edge.

"Wouldn't you?" He angled his head in the way that he'd been told by others was seductive. It had worked in the past to get him into men's beds and other men into his.

Price shook his head frantically, miserably, "…No," It didn't have the timbre of certainty.

Thomas considered how easily everyone's lives slotted together in the town—with Dunn almost preternaturally knowing that Price had his horse, and how now, most assuredly, the news of Thomas losing his horse had spread through the camp. You could try to outrun civilization in the west, but human nature would always follow into every nook and cranny man found. It couldn't be easy to live a life here without others knowing its details. It was why he wanted to leave as soon as possible, "Do the others suspect, is that why?"

Something flared in his eyes, "No," his voice as strong as the grip on his bench, "They'd laugh you out of town."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully, "And if I didn't?"

Price frowned, "What?"

"If I didn't tell them that you kissed me; what then?"

The frowned deepened as his mouth parted slightly in surprise. It was all Thomas needed to know. He closed the final gap between them, keeping his eyes open as he slowly pressed his lips against Price's. The man startled with eyes wide. He moved back slightly in alarm but not enough to dislodge Thomas from his mouth. Thomas closed his eyes then, licking at Price's chapped upper lip before kissing the man properly.

It took a moment before Price moved his mouth against Thomas', but when he did he took to it like a drowning man searched for air. It involved more teeth than Thomas had expected as the other man surged hard against him, but he still opened his mouth, eager for the warm press of Thomas' tongue against his own. Price brought his hands to Thomas' back, roughly grabbing at the fabric of his jacket to bring him closer.

Thomas thought of the state of his hands and pressed against Price's shoulders.

"Not the suit."

Price blinked a few times in confusion, working a mouth bitten red, "The suit?" His eyes narrowed, "Unbelievable."

He pushed Thomas away from him and stalked towards the other wall, creating generous space between them.

"You," he started but mashed his lips together, thinking better of it.

Thomas stepped forward in supplication, "Only to keep its press." And to keep it clean, "I can take it off."

Price arched a brow, "Oh, you'd like to take off your suit."

Dilly finally decided to whinny then, sounding to Thomas like a giggle. He glared at her.

Mood destroyed, Price readjusted his apron from when it shifted in their pairing. Then he pushed past Thomas towards his work bench and picked up his hoof knife again.

"I have a lot of work to do today—not just shoeing your hose—so I best get on with it."

Thomas crossed his arms, "And what of payment?"

"We can discuss who owes whom what later this evening."

"Evening?" He asked incredulously, "And what am I supposed to do for the day when I was meant to be gone this morning?"

Price shrugged, "Whatever your kind gets up to, that's what. Not my business. Or my fault. Now go—I'll meet you tonight at Carson's, since you seemed so fond of it last night."

They held each other's glares for a beat with only the crackle of fire between them. Dilly shifted her weight slightly. Finally, Thomas caved, "Fine. I'll leave."

He stomped by Dilly, only trailing his fingers through her mane as a goodbye—still cross at her betrayal. For her part, she seemed unperturbed that he was leaving her.

He stalked back past the horses in the stalls and pushed through the doors of the stables, blinking against the harsh sunlight. Once they closed behind him, he stood there seething. The nerve of that farrier.


	4. Chapter 4

It turned out, _his kind_, got up to gambling.

In a town like this, a game of poker was never hard to find. In Thomas' experience, if a man allowed himself to trawl through icy rivers for years, then he was reckless enough to bet his golden return in the first game he could find. The thrill of having a bona fide fortune in their pockets went straight to some men's heads—the exact numeric representation of the nugget in question too grand for them to imagine. Thinking it infinite, these men never shied from the chance at separating themselves from it, piece by piece—whore by liquor by ill-advised bet—until nothing was left save for the shirt on their back and the pan in their hand, ready to start the cycle anew.

Sticking to the back alleys near the stable, Thomas found a tiny building that claimed to be a bar. Not even three-quarters of the size of Carson's, there was just room enough for an untreated bar of lumber and a handful of tables to fill its narrow space. For what it lacked in size, it made up for in sheer misery. Unlike the saloon, it lacked proper windows, which Thomas understood as a strategy employed by its owner to keep its more depressing details from its patrons—not that the ones before Thomas would have cared.

The bartender at this establishment was taller, hairier, and much more male than O'Brien. He also did not share her aptitude for maddening chit-chat, as his moustache created an impenetrable shield obscuring his lips. It locked any less than essential words from pushing through its black bristles. As it turned out, he required none to deal with Thomas. He only nodded at Thomas' request before he deposited a stack of chips next to the swing top bottle of whiskey and accompanying short glass. He merely pointed with a crooked finger to a circular table of four men pressed into the far corner—the only one with an empty chair. Thomas stared at the twirled ends of his moustache, thinking of all the damn harrowing experiences this town had bestowed upon him. He left enough coin to cover his entry and the liquor with a slap of his hand against the wood of the bar.

Thomas could tell by the look of his fellow players that they hadn't seen the modern wonder of soap in a long while, and his suspicions were confirmed when the odour of the man to his right reached his sensitive nose. Eyes ringed red with smoke and booze followed his smooth slide into the empty chair. In their haggard expressions and disinclination for conversation, Thomas saw a wealthy future ahead of himself.

He declined the chance of post, and instead waited until the big blind reached him before he started playing. While he waited, he poured himself a drink of maybe two or three fingers—looking through his long lashing as he drank to appraise his opponents. It would take him a few rounds—perhaps purely of losses—before he settled into the feel of the game. He was confident enough in his own abilities that he would come to recognise the other players' betting patterns. He would soon enough determine which tells were fabricated and which ones were accidental.

Observation told him he was playing with two men who liked to call—one in particular being too afraid to properly raise when he should. They marked themselves as easy targets, ripe for the picking when Thomas had a good hand. The other man was harder to categorise, and armed himself with his chips with great effect. It was only half-way through the game before Thomas recognised his aggressive tendency to overplay his hand, and he poured himself more whiskey to celebrate.

He'd milk these bastards dry—or, at least as much as he could before their eyes betrayed flickers of violence. For as easy as money seemed to leak from these men, they were forever surprised and angered when they realised their earnings had all but seeped from their sieve-like pockets.

Thomas' watch read just past four o'clock when that particular glimmer began to compete with the reflection of the lamps' flames in the eyes of the man closest to him, so he bid the table a hasty adieu and cashed in his chips with the sentinel barkeep—a pile much bigger than he had started with.

With most of the day spent enveloped by the indistinct shadows of the bar, Thomas was dazed when hit with fresh air—forgetting for a moment that it was still day. Since he had burned through his welcome at the establishment—the doors of which remained shut behind him—and he had little elsewhere to be, he figured he'd go to Carson's and wait until the appropriate hour of evening arrived to gift him with the presence of Price. He walked determinedly through the empty alleyways for several minutes before he realised he was drunk.

And lost.

He squinted at the sun and staggered when he failed to realise his whole body followed this head's tilt backwards as he examined the bright star. Catching himself before he fell with a few ungainly steps, he noticed a well-dressed man with a white mustache standing a ways down the alley, shaking his head at Thomas.

"Carson's?" Thomas slurred, thinking the man could trade him directions for the show.

"Pardon?" The man was a prim as his suit suggested.

Thomas ran his tongue along his teeth before he enunciated carefully, "Carson's. Where is it?"

The man clucked and shook his head a second time before responding, "It's down here and to the right. Keep going until your reach the main drag, then turn left—though I highly suggest you don't need any more whiskey at this time of the day."

Thomas stamped past him, tipping his hat in the stranger's direction with a smile, "Well it's good no one asked for your opinion then."

He was closer to Carson's than he realised, and found himself polishing the seat of a stool at the bar in less than five minutes. The saloon had filled since this morning, returning to its raucous state once more.

"He's returned," O'Brien said, "Back to accuse me of stealing your horse? Or perhaps it's your long johns this time."

Unsuitably drunk to deal with her tongue, he shrugged and ordered more whiskey.

"For my favourite customer—anything," If he wasn't sure she had been sarcastic, the extended delay before a glass of whiskey was placed before him confirmed it.

His newly padded billfold allowed him to order a Hangtown fry as a meal to wash down his drink, and he was left alone to finish his dinner in peace. The grease and salt helped to absorb the remaining drink in his veins, sobering him. Outside, the sun was chased to the horizon by the night sky, and Thomas watched as Richards began to light the lanterns.

He was rinsing his mouth of the thick flavour of eggs when his stool was kicked, jostling him with enough force behind it that he could still feel the energy of the kick resonate unpleasantly through his bones well after the stool ceased its shuddering.

Turning to see whose foot still remained on the bar of his stool, he swore.

John fucking Bates.

"Thought I couldn't find you, Thomas?" Bates asked through a smug smile, his body a large shadow of promised menace. He wore a dark suit and matching suede hat. The way he leaned against the bar revealed the gleam of gun metal at his side.

Thomas eyed the cane in Bates' hand, "Well, I figured I could at least out run you."

A meaty fist hit the wood of the bar, "People don't outrun the Crawleys. You of all people should know that."

Thomas shrugged, "Can't fault a man in trying."

Bates scoffed, "Perhaps not, but I can find plenty of fault at your hands elsewhere."

Thomas downed his drink, not necessarily arguing. "Jesus, at least take off your hat, you fat fuck."

"He's right you know," O'Brien said as she gave Bates a once-over, having drifted towards them sometime during their brief conversation, "Carson's ain't church but it's still a respected place of business."

Bates stared at her, considering the veracity of her words. He blinked once, having found her as hard to read as Thomas did, who was thankful that she wasn't at his poker table this afternoon. Whatever Bates saw in her face made him lift the hat from his head and place it against his heart.

"I must apologise, then. In my excitement of seeing my dear old friend, I completely forgot I had it on."

She looked non-plussed before she addressed Thomas, "I didn't think you had any friends, Kent. Pegged you for a lone, sorry kind of fellow."

Bates laughed at his chosen name, fully aware of his history with the man, "He's full of surprises, aren't you, _Kent_?"

Thomas ground his molars against each other as he smiled tightly.

"Now, since it's been so long since we've last seen each other, I think you should come along to catch up."

"Ah, but why do that when you can catch up here? We've got liquor, music, and girls when the conversation isn't forthcoming—as it is wont to do between old friends who have had space and time to distance them."

"I fear I won't be able to hear him over the piano," Bates said, just as a loud chord rang out and a few of the patrons sang along crudely with its tune. He gripped at Thomas shoulder hard enough to make him wince, "And I don't want to miss a word that comes from his mouth."

"Now, that doesn't look like a friendly thing to do," O'Brien said with a raised eyebrow.

Thomas could tell by the set of his shoulders that her strange manner had gotten under his skin, "I don't care what it looks like. We're on our way, Thomas."

Bates braced his arm against Thomas' shoulders and began to lean him out of the stool. Thomas resisted, placing his hands against the edge of the bar. He knew there was no way he could leave Carson's—and the safety in numbers it afforded—if he valued his life. Bates' presence could only mean one thing. Crawley wasn't looking for the return of his money or an apology—he was looking for blood.

He considered his options, and threw a sharp elbow into Bates' unprotected belly. As the other man bent over at the waist with a wheezing gasp, Thomas grabbed at his head and rammed it against his bent knee, feeling the cartilage give way with a crunch. Bates stumbled blindly for a moment, putting space between the two of them, as he grabbed at his now bleeding nose.

Before Thomas could turn for the exit, Bates tackled his midsection, propelling him against the man that was sitting beside him at the bar. The three of them toppled over in a jumble of limbs, landing on the dirty ground with groans. Thomas scrambled to his feet in time to meet the man's fist with his face, and he staggered backwards from the force of it.

His back knocked into a table, upsetting the round of drinks and the grimy men who had been drinking them. Thomas turned to see one of them stand, craning his head to reach his eyes. The giant grabbed at his lapels and for the second time that night, Thomas found himself sprawled on the floor, watching as the giant man and his friends walked towards him.

He floundered as Bates scuffled past him with the man from the stool, grappling with each other for a moment before they broke a part. The other man grabbed at the broken stool and swung. Bates ducked just in time, allowing the strong arc to continue uninhibited until it smashed into the giant man's chest. Despite his size, he dropped to the floor, knocking into the man that had been sitting behind him. With an indignant cry, this man and his table mates stood, arms raised and ready for to fight. Now, the giant and his friends were torn between righting the wrong that Thomas had caused and protecting themselves from another set of angry men.

Thomas got a good left hook in before one of them struck his solar plexus. Thomas choked as air rushed out of him and his ribs refused to expand, hunching over in time to receive an elbow to his back. This made his third time meeting the floor, and he gasped his first breath into the dust just as hands fisted at his jacket and lifted him to his feet. It was Bates. He struck a sharp fist against Thomas' cheek bones, and the blow was hard enough to make him see stars. As he blinked against the daze, Bates pulled at him to get him away from the fray when another man staggered away from the giant's punch into Bates. He released Thomas as he stumbled a few steps, right into the fist of Thomas' opponent.

When Bates was tackled by yet another man, Thomas realised most of the bar was now involved in this melee, in some way or another. The patrons grunted and pushed at each other, exchanging fists and kicks as the prostitutes screamed and ran for the stairs.

Thomas ducked against a thrown bottle, and swivelled with his fist leading him when a hand touched his shoulder. He couldn't stop the action, but significantly decreased its force before his knuckles crashed against Price's cheek. They stumbled awkwardly together as Thomas followed his swing into Price. The farrier swore loudly.

Thomas was surprised when Price boxed his ear with enough strength that they rang, and he would have staggered away had the farrier not grabbed at his elbow, "Come on!"

Thomas allowed Price to pull him through the throng, weaving and ducking when necessary to avoid the fighting men. Eventually they crashed through a back door Thomas hadn't known existed and tumbled out into the back alley. Having not let go of his elbow, Price continued to pull him as he ran down the alley, hearing the crack of a gun from inside behind them. Zig-zagging up and down side passages, they ran until their breath tore out of their lungs. Just when Thomas didn't think he could force his leg to take another step, Price stopped.

He had led Thomas to the back of his stable, where they climbed a set of stairs to reach a door at the second storey. Price fumbled with the lock before he pushed the door in and dragged Thomas in with him. It was Price's bedroom, complete with a desk, dresser, basin, and bed. A small window looked out into the alley way they had just run down.

Turning the key and ensuring the lock engaged before he threw it on to the dresser, Price closed the drapes of the window above it. He paced the short length of the room.

"What the hell was that?"

Thomas swallowed as he fought to find his breath. He tried not to fidget, "Bar fight got out of hand."

"No, I know that's bullshit. I saw you throw the first punch."

"A man can't allow another man to run his mouth and criticise his fashion," Thomas said as he brushed at his suits, troubled to see that it had a drop of blood on its rumbled and dusty fabric.

Price finally stopped pacing to fix him a glare, "I'd believe you if you weren't so bad at throwing a punch."

"I managed to land a few," Thomas said, with a closed grin.

Price rolled his eyes, tracing the curve of his cheekbones, "You managed to catch a few too. You're bleeding."

Thomas touched his cheek with a wince and his fingers came away bloody. He scrunched his nose and brow, stretching his mouth, to manipulate the muscles below the cut, feeling the way the opened flesh pulled with a sting.

"Here, sit down," Price gestured at the bed as he poured water into his basin. Thomas watched as he dipped a cloth in the water, ringing it out slightly before he sat down next to him.

Thomas flinched when he pressed the cloth against the cut, accidentally making a vulnerable, breathy sound when Price pushed harder. Thomas looked away in embarrassment when Price apologised soflty.

Price dunked the cloth into the basin a couple of more times—the fabric revealing itself redder each time. Thomas felt incredibly aware of his body as adrenaline slowly leaked from his limbs—suddenly sensitive of how close he sat to Price, how much space he took up on the small bed, and how much air he breathed of the small room. Price dragged the cloth to Thomas' eyebrow, where the skin must have split one of the times he hit the floor, and Thomas clenched his eyes against the pain. He felt weary to his bones, knowing that he'd have to push himself off the bed and leave, sooner than later.

"Is Dilly ready to go?" He asked, voice strangled.

The cloth against his brow stilled. When he blinked one eye open, he found Price staring at his face severely.

"You mean to ride out tonight?"

Thomas nodded, dislodging Price's grip. The farrier threw the soiled cloth into the basin and it landed in the water with a splash.

Price looked from Thomas' cheek and eyebrow, refusing to make eye contact, "Tell me why first."

Thomas was reluctant to educate Price on his past actions, as his capacity for shame regarding his history would rival Price's capacity for disgust once he learned of it. He licked his lips and picked at a nail, "I'm not sure if it's wi—"

Price scoffed, "Oh hell, I saved you back there, didn't I? It's the least you owe me."

Thomas hated it when others were right and when he was, arguably, wrong—especially when it came to Price. He was a stubborn, insistent bastard who rescued him and looked good doing it.

"The man that I hit—the first man that I hit, with the cane—is John Bates." Thomas said finally.

Price pulled up straight at the mention of the name, his face carefully blank. As usual, Bates' reputation as Crawley's right-hand man, hired gun, and the most deadly assassin in the West preceded him.

Price's tone was sharp, "What does John Bates want to do with you?"

_John Bates_ always said full first and last like a celebrity—carried on hurried whispers as if he were some sort of golem of the West.

Thomas considered lying, fabricating some wild story of his unfortunate fate of being a man falsely pursued but the words died on his lips. He struggled for a moment before he said, "I used to work… for the Crawleys."

"Aw, shit, Kent. The Crawleys?" Price pushed himself off the bed and began to pace again.

Price had reason to worry. The Crawleys were one of the biggest names in the West, owing their vast fortune to shrewd investments and a monopoly on the biggest trade route in California. They had a hand in every major commodity out here, with their shipments driving their steam engines across the country. The Crawleys were responsible for shipping most of the goods that anyone following their manifest destiny to the hiniterlands used—including Price and Thomas. He could guarantee that the Crawleys had shipped the iron with which Price shoed Dilly.

But the Crawley name inspired fear in others, as most people knew of the hushed whispers of what they got up to in California's darkest corners. Just as their commercial influence was far and wide throughout the state, they had become an authority within the illegitimate dealings of California. They were accountable for opium's presence, laying the tracks with which the Chinese could move their drug, dulling the minds of an already stupid population. To protect themselves and their business, they had a band of unthinking, unfeeling men loyal only to the family name. These men would track down those who had wronged them—in whatever way—and the Crawleys would collect their pound of flesh.

Thomas felt the lack of Price's body heat next to him, feeling unmoored. He cringed, "My name isn't Kent either. It's Barrow. Thomas Barrow."

Evidently, _his_ name wasn't linked to any status outside of the Crawley empire, which, for once, Thomas was glad. He worried his lip as Price digested that.

"What do you do," He corrected himself, "what did you used to do for the Crawleys, Thomas Barrow?"

Thomas smiled miserably, feeling pinioned by the force behind Price's question, "This and that. Thought one day I'd replace Bates."

The look on Price's face had him fumbling to clarify himself.

"But—but then I didn't. I realised that," He laughed, "I couldn't do what he does… I didn't want to. Once I saw how exploitive, manipulative, sadistic, and dangerous the Crawleys were, I… couldn't be their errand boy anymore, so one day, when I was assigned to," Thomas considered his phrasing, "collect collateral from a loan gone bad, I let the man go and kept the small deed for myself."

Thomas looked at his hands, "I sold what was a property for a prospecting claim outside of Downton and was going to use the money to get the hell out of dodge before the Crawleys even knew I had done anything, but then like everything else in my life that plan went to shit and here I am, the Crawleys' bloodhound after me and I'm bleeding in a farrier's bedroom less than a mile away."

Price had stopped pacing, but he rocked on his feet—something Thomas pinned as a lifelong habit instead of the nervous energy after an adrenaline spike. In all the times they've shared together, he'd rarely stood absolutely still. It made him want to grab and Price and force him into stillness, holding on for dear life.

"How many people have you killed?"

Thomas shook his head with eyes wide, "None. I told you—I'm not cut out for that. I only roughed up a few people, I promise."

It was true, and he was desperate for Price to know it—not just to ensure his continued help, but to make him understand that Thomas could be a good man. He folded underneath the silence, the atmosphere of the room full to the brim with Price's disappointment and disgust. This is why he couldn't do people—relationships—he always let them down.

"You really sold that claim?"

Thomas nodded, and the room descended back into its oppressive silence. Price examined the wooden floor boards a long while intently before nodding his head jerkily, "Okay," He rubbed his fingers at his lips, revealing his under-bite, "Okay, I believe you."

Thomas didn't realise he had been holding his breath as Price deliberated until his shoulders slumped as he sighed. The rush of air returning to his lung provided a short lived form of relief, churning into an ill feeling as his innards twisted; he still wasn't out of the woods yet. Bates was still out there, patrolling the town for his person and wouldn't quit until he had his head. Thomas swallowed feelings the colour of black bile down, knowing what he had to do. Perhaps what was worse than letting people down was letting people go. At least, the idea of Price in the yellow glow of his lamp was a hard concept to relinquish when all that laid before him was the open road, Dilly, and the persistent shadow of Bates trailing them.

"Is Dilly shoed? I can pay you."

Price crossed his arms, shaking his head, "No. Not tonight. They'll be looking at every horse leaving camp."

"The longer I stay here, more chance he'll find me. Bates is… determined, to say the least."

He had accompanied the man on a single task as a form of training—to see if he was ready to take on some of the man's responsibilities, and the outcome of which still haunted him. Bates cared for little save the efficiency of his job. The sheer brutality of his person made him a scarily resourceful and ruthless brute, though he dressed like he was paid through the Crawley's legitimate payroll—acted like he was some kind of gentleman. It had been a regular job, or so Thomas had thought—meant to scare the man who owed the Crawleys money more than anything—but Thomas had blanched when Bates shot the man through the crotch of his pants without warning. They watched as his heart pulsed out a gulf of blood from what used to be his genitals for what felt like hours as the man sobbed before Bates finally sent a bullet into his head. Bates had seen the way Thomas' hand trembled in the aftermath of bullet's crack and cuffed his head, pushing against his shoulder blades to guide him through the door and back to their horses. It had been the one and only time he had joined Bates—the beginning of the end of his time with the Crawleys.

"You think he came alone? A posse of men I didn't recognise was out front of Carson's, and I can bet you they came with John Bates. They'd catch up to you," he shook his head again, "No—it'd be better to lie low and make them think you left."

Price sat back down next to Thomas and grabbed at his lapel, "Give me your clothes."

Thomas startled, "What?"

"I'll wear your clothes and ride Dilly out of town—real obviously—and get them to follow. Once they catch up with me, they'll think it was part of the plan and you took the opportunity to sneak out of town, when really, you'll be staying right here."

Price might have heard the stories, but he didn't understand Bates' mentality. He shook his head, "You're crazy. No! They'd shoot you—and Dilly—on the spot if they thought you were me."

It was Price's turn to deflate, and Thomas felt a fool for dismissing his idea so quickly, considering the lengths the man has taken to save him already.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. You're right, after all."

They sat together in silence, considering the problem that faced them.

The bed creaked as Price shifted slightly, looking at him indirectly through his lashes, "You could stay here… for however long it takes for John Bates to give up and move on. He'd never think to look here."

Thomas' heart stuttered from Price's charity, for it had been a long time since someone had offered him kindness, "That could be… a very long while."

"I know."

Price's left cheek where Thomas had hit him was starting to swell, blooming an angry red. The skin was hot under Thomas' fingertip, and Price blinked in surprise at his touch.

"I'm sorry I hit you," Thomas said.

Thomas felt the muscles under his hand move as he smiled, "I'm not sorry for hitting you back."

His fingers traced his cheek bone down to his jaw, tilting his chin until his lips were at the perfect angle to meet his own. In his hands was a man who accepted him even knowing parts of his past and still wanted him to stay. He pressed against Price's mouth, extending a palm to curl around the strong cords of the muscles in his neck. He cupped his hand against his nape, flexing against the short hairs at the back of his head.

Price opened his mouth against Thomas', softer this time—gently nipping at his bottom lip before slipping his tongue between Thomas' parted lips. He grasped at the back of Thomas' suit as they kissed, and this time Thomas let him. They fumbled at each other, rocking as they kissed long and hard—until their breathed in huffs and pants—and they grew increasingly frantic, fuelled by the earlier fight and potent with their escape .

They worked to rid each other of their clothes. Price, wearing only his work linens and suspenders was quick to be bared, and he groaned in frustration at each new layer that was revealed under every article of clothing he peeled off of Thomas.

"God, how many clothes do you wear?" He growled as he shoved the fabric of his last undershirt up to his armpits, dragging it over Thomas' head. He flung it to the floor where the rest of Thomas' suit laid in a pile. Growling an incensed 'finally' into the hollow of Thomas' collarbone once his chest was exposed—his breath humid against Thomas' prickling skin.

Their hands moved everywhere, pressing against the hard angles of their bodies and kneading at fleshy muscles, mouths working to taste each other.

Thomas gasped as Price pressed his body flush against his, pushing him down onto the bed. His stomach tightened with heat when Price's tongue swiped at his neck, and he felt himself harden the longer Price sucked at the junction of his neck.

"Fuck, Price," Thomas moaned, unable to help himself as he pressed his palms up Price's back and over his shoulders, moving up to card through his messy hair.

Price huffed into his ear—the heat of his breath making him shiver, "It's Teddy. People only call me Price when I'm working on their horse."

Thomas worked his throat as Price—_Teddy_—began to suck at his ear, "Theodore."

Teddy pressed his canine against the lobe of his ear, swiping the tip of his tongue against its edge, and spoke with his flesh between his teeth, "It's _Teddy_."

"Mmm, okay, Teddy," Thomas sighed, "_Teddy_."

They rutted then, and Thomas could feel the persistent press of Teddy's erection against his hip as they chased the glorious friction created between their moving bodies. He skimmed the taut skin at the top of his pants, running a finger along the edge of fabric before dipping to the wiry hair below. His pants didn't offer enough space. He needed them off—now—so he unfastened the buttons and pushed the fabric of both it and Teddy's underwear down. His penis sprung to his stomach as soon as he was bared completely, its tip already glistening wet and red.

"I'm gonna—fuck, Barrow—the Crawleys?" Teddy ground out, as he kneeled back on thick, muscular thighs and he fumbled at Thomas' pants fly. Thomas lifted his ass and thighs to allow the fabric to be dragged down, holding himself at the root as he moved.

"I know, I'm hnng—" Thomas let out a breathy sound through parted lips as Teddy sucked at his head enough to hollow his cheeks, swirling his tongue. The wet sound was obscene—more still as Thomas watched Teddy's saliva pass past his working lips to coat the rest of his erection.

His heart thudded against his ribs when Teddy finally began licking his length, fingers massaged along his perineum, and he couldn't stop the groan when he finally took him, past the tip, into his mouth—the wet, hot pressure working him towards the promise of climax.

"You're amazing," Thomas said as he watched, "God, I never th—thought I'd escape Bates for this."

Teddy huffed in amusement, but Thomas wondered if he had fantasised about him during the afternoon. Thomas might not have imagined Teddy's lips wrapped around him as a possible development after slipping through Bates' fingers, but he had certainly visualised a similar scenario after their first meeting in Carson's piqued his interest. He groaned at thought of Teddy touching himself, moaning loudly in the privacy of his small room thinking of Thomas while he brought himself off.

The wooden frame began to squeak as Teddy settled into a rhythm, adding to the slick sound of his mouth. Thomas pressed his head back into the pillow when Teddy hummed, but he immediately looked back in order to watch his muscles ripple as Teddy worked a hand between his own legs. He licked his lips, reaching to card his hands through Teddy's hair, resting them against his head as he bobbed up and down.

Thomas squirmed against the sheets, hot and wet, drenched in sweat and lost to the pace set by Teddy's mouth, sucking up and down. His body was buzzing, metabolising the stress and fatigue of the earlier fight and transforming it into a new kind of fearless urgency. With ever swipe of Teddy's tongue and every pull of his mouth, Thomas felt himself spiralling, lost to the brown eyes looking up through dishevelled bangs—twisting in on himself tight and tighter until—

His hips accidentally bucked up as the heat coiling in his lower belly snapped—breath coming in heaving pants as orgasm washed over him so hard his ears rang with a shrill buzz. He felt himself spasm as Teddy continued to suck and swallow. Finally, he was released and he lay below, basking in lax satisfaction as he shuddered as the bed rock with the movement of Teddy's masturbation.

A deep flush had spread to his right cheek, matching the blush of where Thomas had struck him on his left. Teddy worked his swollen lips soundlessly, brows indenting as he thrust into his hand to find that perfect friction—his knees still straddling Thomas' legs. Thomas threaded his fingers up Teddy's thighs, wrapping around to grab at the mounds of his ass, drawing a finger along the clef.

"Hgnh," Teddy keened under his touch, making Thomas reconsider his fantasy of the man. Maybe he hadn't just worked a fist over his erection as he thought about Thomas, but reached a finger to press into himself—then two, then three— rocking back against the pressure of his curled digits at his rim. The angle was all wrong for Thomas to touch him there properly, but he imagined that he could discover that intimacy during his days spent in hiding.

"Teddy, let me—god," Thomas held on to Teddy's rocking hips with one, anchoring him as he squeezed gently at the base of his penis. Teddy dropped his hand, pressing it wide against Thomas' chest—searing his palm print into his tender sternum. His other hand gripped at the bed frame as he leaned into his arm, knees splayed wide to roll his hips into Thomas' accommodating hand. He was reminded that the man made a living working hard handling horses and metal, his whole body flexing carved and veined muscles as he balanced above him. He was beautiful. Thomas curled his fist, gliding his palm over his length, steadily working towards Teddy's frenzied end.

"Mmm, Thomas," He panted, pumping his hips forward. Thomas eagerly returned Teddy's own unguarded look through hooded, lust-blown eyes as he fucked his fist—the bed's creaking increasing in tempo until he came with a moan, spurting thick cords over Thomas' chest.

Teddy sighed, melting onto Thomas and fitting their torsos close, accommodating hyper-sensitive skin until they slotted together perfectly, and Thomas held them tight as their heartbeats thudded wildly against each other's chest. Thomas dozed as their pulses slowed in unison, idly tracing indiscernible designs in the sweat-slicked skin of Teddy's back. He followed the line of his spine until his finger fit into the clef of his ass.

They were both sweaty and sticky, sealed together with Teddy's cum—revelling in the mess they made of the sheets and themselves—Teddy's pants still bunched at his knees. Thomas felt untouchable, maybe even safe, with Teddy draped over his chest.

"Dilly's a good horse," Teddy mumbled against the skin of Thomas' neck, sleep slurring his words.

Thomas hummed in agreement. She was—when she wasn't mooning over Teddy—a loyal steed.

"I like her," Teddy said, "It's sorta why I like you."

They laid in silence, Thomas listening to Teddy's breaths lengthen. The air left his mouth in small sibilant tuffs as he slept, hot against his skin, and the measured sound—with the weight and heat of his body—dragged Thomas towards sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun rose early, but the cloth drapes covering Teddy's window were thick enough to keep it from brightening the room too much. It afforded the small space a muted quietude – the lighting detaching the bedroom from any time in particular, breeding an easy ambiguity for Thomas to slip into and embrace.

There was no place to go or be; and if his eyes stayed open only a crack, he could keep at bay all of the difficulties that awaited him in wakefulness.

Soft and warm, he indulged in the press of their limbs as he pushed his face into the junction of Teddy's arm and torso, chasing the drowsy smell of skin in lieu of thoughts of the future. During the night, they had shifted so that Teddy was on his back with Thomas carving out space at his side, allowing him now a chance to watch his face as he slumbered. Mouth slack and brow smooth, it was the first time since their introduction that his face wasn't distorted by some emotion or another. It gave him the look of stone – immovable and unknowable in sleep – yet soft enough that it yielded against a gentle finger.

Thomas burrowed deeper into the covers when Teddy huffed against a curious pull at his lip, and he feigned sleep as the other man slowly awoke, experiencing the tremble of stretching muscles and the ocean of breath surging in waves according to every other sense but sight.

A low hum vibrated the small bed that they shared – the first of many small movements rocking the bed as Teddy woke up.

"'Mornin'," His voice was impossibly low with sleep, and it was marked with the curve of a smile. He had begun rubbing his feet together, twisting his legs lazily next to Thomas' and jiggling the space that they shared.

Thomas poked his head up and smiled in return.

"I have to tend to the horses," Teddy whispered, shifting to get out of bed.

Thomas grabbed his arm, halting his progress. As long as they didn't leave this bed, nothing could go wrong.

"Stay – the horses can last another hour or two."

Another hum but he didn't move, "Dilly – all of them need to be fed."

"She's not an early riser and won't appreciate the gesture… Come on," Thomas kissed his inner elbow, "Stay here with me."

The languid feel to the morning that Thomas was intent on preserving was infectious, or perhaps it was just the power of another warm body in his usually empty bed, but Teddy's commitment to routine was easily broken and he melted back down to the mattress.

"And what do you propose we do?"

"Stay here and never leave," Thomas said before he could stop himself. Recklessly loose and now self-consciously discomfited, he looked away – unaware of Teddy's slight frown or how it melted into a sad smile of realisation.

The bed creaked as Teddy moved into kiss him, mouthing against his lips, "But what would we _do_, is the question."

Thomas clenched his eyes closed as he returned the kiss, recognising the branch that Teddy was offering.

Breaking the kiss to bring their foreheads together, Thomas smiled, "Oh, I can think of a few things."

Another kiss – deep and gentle – and they were moving together, sliding against each other and fitting perfectly. With the time they allowed themselves, they gave each other permission to seek pleasure in every plane and valley of the other's skin. Decadent, Thomas thought it to be, as the rhythm they created was one of leisure – so unlike the rutting of the night before. It was the last coherent thought that he had, as Teddy moved his mouth against his.

After a time of release, body whirring with boneless satisfaction, Thomas dozed and watched half-heartedly as Teddy rose and began dressing for the day. It was only when the cold shock of a wet rag hit his chest that he awoke properly.

"You can at least clean up while I work," Teddy said with a smile, adjusting his suspenders over his shirt.

Thomas groaned but dragged the cloth over his skin, "Cruel taskmaster."

He stood before the basin and began to wash himself properly.

"I shouldn't be more than an hour with the horses. I think I'll shut the stable for the day… due to the circumstances."

Thomas stared into the water, as the nature of the "circumstances" sharpened in the afterglow. The air grew thin and hard to breathe as Thomas felt the phantom hands of Bates close around his throat. He was somewhere in the town now, no doubt asking everyone in his path where he might find Thomas.

"Thomas?"

Before he could answer, two loud knocks rang out with enough strength to jostle the door in its jamb. They both froze, neither daring to breathe in the silence that followed.

Finally, Thomas whispered – nearly mouthed, "You expecting anyone?"

Teddy shook his head as another knock resounded.

"Thomas, I know you're in there. Open up or I'll shoot the damn lock off."

It was Bates, here to strangle him sooner than expected. Thomas grabbed his pile of clothes from the floor and hastily stepped into his pants, eager to be clothed when he met his hunter face to face. Unarmed and unclothed were a dangerous combination in Thomas' experience and so he dressed with the reflexes born from sleeping in open, desolate spaces where men lived beyond the guiding hand of law.

"Nobody by the name of Thomas is here," Teddy said, voice just barely raised as he turned to face the door.

"Well, Price, we both know that's a lie. Now – I won't ask again."

Cinching his gun belt around his hips, Thomas gripped his pistol and nodded to the door with eyebrows raised, hoping Teddy would understand it as the instruction that it was intended to be.

"I'll open this door, but you won't find a Thomas here, mister," Teddy said as he gripped the latch – his other hand inserting the key.

_One, two, three_ Thomas mouthed, as he cocked the hammer of his gun, aiming its barrel at the centre of the door – aiming true for Bates' heart.

A loud shot rang out just as Teddy turned the key, and he fell away from the door with a cry, landing on the floor. Thomas rushed to his side, all thought of attack gone at the sight of bloodied fingers clutching the side of his neck. He cried for the man to look at him, but Teddy shook his head with eyes scrunched up into a wrinkled mess.

"'S just my ear," He ground out through bared teeth, but it was too late.

The door hit the edge of the dresser on its opening arc with the sound of a cracking whip, revealing Bates with his gun drawn and still smoking. Backlit by the white-bright sun, Thomas squinted against the radiant aureole that glimmered around his body.

Hark, a divine messenger descended on golden rays; or perhaps, more aptly, a harbinger. For what, Thomas knew exactly, as the list of his sins – all told and not just what the Crawleys were sore over – would fill that of a hundred mile scroll – the sentence for which involved a bullet embossed with the initials T and B.

The floorboards creaked as the man moved into the room, his large body filling its small space. Belatedly, Thomas re-aimed his pistol when he found himself looking down the barrel of Bates' gun. Though they were equally matched in weapons, Bates stood unlike a man in a standoff; he was relaxed in his abilities to outmanoeuver Thomas – unconcerned with the pistol aimed at his chest.

He looked down at Teddy, "I am sorry about that. I hope it doesn't scar too badly."

The farrier writhed in pain and hurled a curse, but Thomas puffed a sigh of relief – the closest thing to a liturgy of gratitude as he would ever get. The bleeding had stemmed and did not look as grisly as it did upon Teddy's fall. His fingers, awashed in black-red violence, pressed against the space where part of his earlobe once was.

Bates gestured with his gun, "Stand up and toss over your gun, Thomas… or I'll aim lower this time."

Thomas swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and he dared not speak – still drunk with the thought of Teddy's near expiry, he feared that he would slur something foolish.

He hesitated despite the threat. His pistol was his only leverage in this sorry confrontation and he was disinclined to throw it away. How else would he protect Teddy?

The tell-tale click of the hammer drawn back decided it for him. With his finger stuck through the trigger guard, he let the pistol's weight swing it down before he slid it across the floor towards Bates' awaiting foot. His knees cracked as he got to his feet.

"How did you find me?" Thomas asked.

Without breaking eye contact or his aim, Bates bent down and secured the pistol in the back of his pants. Grabbing the lapel of his suit jacket, he yanked Thomas close enough that he could identify the rancid smell emanating from his mouth as born from Patmore's coffee.

"You don't think I know what you get up to? All I had to do was ask for a pretty face, and I knew I had you."

These words constricted something within Thomas' chest until he was full with something that he recognised as resentment.

"Besides which, you practically left bread crumbs leading to this den," he cocked his head, "Dilly's looking well."

"You didn't touch her," Thomas said, white-hot from the thought of how tight he would hold her reigns, dragging her toward wherever he wanted. Dilly would have no choice but to allow his stubby fingers to drag through her mane, tangling the black locks Thomas worked hard to keep combed.

Thomas' neck twinged hot and cold when his head was knocked back from a strong punch. He could feel the scabbing skin on his cheek split – blood bubbling up from its fissure.

"I do whatever I damn well please, Thomas," Bates said, encircling his enormous fists into the fabric of his jacket. He wrenched Thomas towards the door until they were outside of the room and linked a foot through his legs.

"The Earl sends his regards," he said, and then shoved hard against his chest.

Sky tilted as Thomas fell backwards, body dropping a far distance before it slammed against the first of many steps. The world flickered as his head hit the sturdy wood of the stairs, and for a moment all was lost to the sensation of vertigo. After a couple of slow blinks, everything righted itself – the sky was above and the ground below – calloused hands seized his wrists and stretched his arms far above his head.

Bates' grip was punishing as he sat his entire weight on top of Thomas. He was pinned – hemmed in on all sides. He bucked, hoping to dislodge the other man but found that he was made of his stone and his own body weak from its fall. Was this how Dilly felt with their own arrangement, with Thomas sitting insistent and heavy on her back? He growled, no, this was infinitely worse – Thomas could not move at all and the lactic acid burned at his struggling muscles, leaving him a trembling mess as the weight of his humiliation rivaled that of Bates' flesh.

"G'off!" Another useless bucking resulted in nothing more than tweaking his small back.

"The Crawleys did right by you," Bates snarled, his face red. A large vein in his forehead bespoke of his feelings on the subject, "And you were dumb enough to throw it all away."

His pride, after the fall, a limping wretch underneath the circling buzzards, and Bates' words, full of judgement for a world that he did not – could not – understand, were barbs that caught the sensitive skin of his body, scenting the air with the perfume of his blood.

He couldn't speak, he was so incensed so he sneered at the insult, causing Bates to draw up both of his wrists into one wide fist and slap him with his other. He grabbed at his neck with a grip strong enough that Thomas felt his own pulse knocking in his throat as his vision dimmed.

He was vertical again – pulled to his feet – and Thomas saw stars, choking against the abuse of his neck. In a daze, without seeing the world pass him, he was dragged through the back alleys and roads. His thoughts drifted to Dilly, and how he should have considered her instincts when she turned her nose up at the mouth of the town's thoroughfare. For she had sensed the promise of misfortune where he did not, blinded as he was by his own misery on the road.

It had been a mistake to stray from the darkened trails that ensured his safety because of the needs of a weak and lonely constitution. Certain now more than ever that whatever brief solace had been found in the arms of the farrier was a mistake, Thomas mourned a life he could never have. On the second floor of the stable laid a man now bloodied because of Thomas – his mistakes now affected more than just himself.

Through the daze, Thomas noticed the quiet brook of the alleys had trickled into the larger stream of the thoroughfare, busy with mid-morning activity. Blinking away stars, Thomas saw that they had arrived at the steps of Carson's.

Bates raised an arm straight towards the sky and the sound of a bullet whip-cracked through the air. It startled the surrounding people into aborted action; pale faces jerked towards them, intent to locate the source of the sound, drawn with the knowledge that it issued from the barrel of a gun – bodies already bent with understanding that what it threatened required shelter.

The wooden planks in front of Carson's offered little cover save for the refuge that the shadowed interior of the saloon could provide. Few moved beyond their immediate surroundings, though. The way Bates handled his gun was shorthand for badman and universal for 'nobody move'.

The man in question cleared his throat in the silence that festered between them, and he took the time to ensure that he had each and everyone's full attention, revelling in their concentration.

"Now that I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, there is a small matter that needs to be dealt with this afternoon, and I require your assistance."

Thomas grunted as he landed in the mud at Bates' feet, arms cast wide to brace himself and prevent his face from meeting the ground. His fists lost themselves to the thick and chilled sludge that gushed between the webbing of his fingers and stained the cuffs of his duster, and he felt the wetness seep into the knees of his pants. What he knew to be a foot was pressed against his lower back, forcing him to remain in his kowtowed posture before the growing crowd. He grit his teeth against the image he knew he made to these unfamiliar faces – just another low, bloodied, and dirty man being handed his fate – forced upon him by a man who knew how this indignity would sting; his jaw popped with the realization that the boot clad foot was leaving behind its mark of mud, dirt, and other such foul things that Bates had collected along the way.

"Here before you is Thomas Barrow, though for some of you, you will have known him by his alias, Jimmy Kent."

Thomas peered through his loosened bangs and saw how the denizens of the town were attending to Bates' speech carefully. All of them were unknown to Thomas – they cast their eyes towards him with curiosity and suspicion, for he was a stranger amongst their midst and capable of anything that warranted his low position on the ground.

"He is also known as a violent man who is a threat to your charming town and one that I plan to neutralize today before you with God as my witness."

The boot slid up his back and the pressure increased until Thomas buckled under its might – his biceps no match for the thick meat of Bates' thigh. His breath plumed a spray of mud as his cheek hit the ground. The taste of it gave an earthy flavour to the slander as his lips were coated with the mess.

"Among his many crimes, of which I will not enumerate here before you, he has stolen from my employers and abused their trust," Bates said, voice ringing loud and judicial, "The Crawleys will not abide lawlessness in this state of California,"

Thomas growled and attempted to push up against Bates' foot, but his words still slurred through the filth – his sentence stained with it, "If they want Law, then where's my trial?"

He was answered by the boot digging sharply into his spine and he yelled for the crowd, "Where's the sheriff?"

The reason he was crushed underfoot had very little do with order restored and everything to do with insult repaid, and the silence of the crowd suggested that they understood this and the business of the Crawleys well enough. No one moved to call for any lawman, and Thomas cursed them for it, renewing his struggles despite the crooked feeling in his head and the heaviness of his limbs.

"I've been ordered to shoot this man for his crimes—"

"Stop!"

Teddy's voice was clear and virtuous compared to Bates' self-righteous growl. It carried faster than he was able to move, as the people were reluctant to shift for the farrier – allowing Thomas enough time to crane his neck and drag his chin through the mud to see Teddy push through their wall. He looked wild with eyes wide and teeth bared as he entered the space they had allowed him – wilder with the streak of blood staining his neck, shoulder, and the tips of his hair. In his hands he held an iron poker that Thomas recognised from the stable, his knuckles white around its length – the strength of his focus causing his body to strain within its confines. His eyes flickered briefly over Thomas before settling on Bates.

Thomas remembered how he looked this morning under the covers – how he smelled of hay, sweat, and honest to god work – a smile deepening the creases at his eyes and lending him a bright and fresh look that was lost to the grim blood and anger that now marked his face.

"Let him go," Teddy said, raising the poker like a bat and attempting to stand still.

"Can't do that, mister. Man's a cheat. You know that."

Teddy shrugged, "Tell me a man in town who ain't."

Thomas felt something unfurl in his chest at Teddy's words; the most honest man he knew was willing to fight for him. Above him, Bates chuckled and Thomas felt him shift. He knew from his time shadowing the other man while in the employ of the Crawleys that he was shaking his head – possibly even grinning. Bates would be staring at Teddy and appraising the level of threat he posed, and Thomas watched as Teddy stood up to his scrutiny – chest heaving with each breath.

Thomas had to shut his eyes and block out the vision of his aspirant saviour, crushing his eyelids together to eclipse the afterimage that remained; he couldn't watch the man attempt to defend him with what amounted to sticks in comparison to Bates' steel.

"I've got a job to do. Step aside now or make me go through you… it makes no difference to me. Either way, Thomas here meets the same fate."

Thomas mewled when his arm was cranked until the bones creaked with displeasure. Bates used his crooked arm to pull him to his feet. He blinked his eyes open to see Teddy working his lower jaw – defiance sparking in his eyes. There would be no backing down, and Bates would stop him dead before he could take a single step.

Thomas couldn't let another man die at his hands.

"Don't—Teddy… I'm… it's not worth it," he said, teeth barely parting to let his words through – pain, shame, and frustration a triumvirate restricting his voice.

Confusion rippled across Teddy's face as he finally looked away from Bates to throw an incredulous glare at Thomas. Behind him, the crowd continued as the silent spectators to their drama.

"He's right you know – he ain't worth damn nothing. It'd be better if you stepped aside, Teddy."

Thomas shivered at the intimate way Bates enunciated the name, making sharp peaks and endless plateaus out of its soundscape. He remembered the nights they shared dinner across a fire, when Bates would say Thomas in much the same way, not even an hour after having killed a man in cold blood.

The muscles in Teddy's shoulders bunched in a way that suggested he was going to argue, but the click of a revolver at his back halted any further debate. Behind him, a man positioned his pistol against the small of his back, revealing him to be one of the members of the posse Teddy mentioned the night before. Teddy's eyes danced between the gun at Bates' side and the empty holster at Thomas' hip before he blinked, mouth gaping at the injustice. His grip loosened, and the mud swallowed his poker with a sucking noise.

"You'll see you made the right choice, son."

Bates let go of Thomas' arm and spun him around so that they were facing each other, barely a foot away. The other man stepped further into Thomas' space and let his breath mist humidly against his ear.

"And it's high time you realized your worth."

Louder, so that the crowd could hear him, Bates said, "Now, Thomas. Your recompense begins with a gun in your hand and ends with a bullet in your chest."

He pulled the gun he had seized earlier from the back of his pants and pressed it into Thomas' dirty palms. Thomas tightened his fist around the familiar grip, his forefinger automatically extending towards the trigger. He could get one bullet in his gut before Bates could draw his pistol to gift him with a shot of his own, but one bullet was all Thomas needed.

"Try and shoot me now, and my men will kill your farrier before they kill you."

Thomas swallowed as he felt his stomach fashion itself into a crater whose bottom dropped to fathomless depths at the thought of Teddy with a bullet in his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Teddy hadn't moved from his spot in the thoroughfare – still frozen by the gun at this back.

"Go to hell."

Bates grinned and crushed Thomas' shoulder in his fist and turned towards the saloon, "Mr. Carson, I believe you'll do the honours?"

Carson stepped from the shadows of his saloon into the light of day and the spectators moved without having to be told to do so. Beside him, O'Brien matched each step, looking curiously bored by the events before her even as her hand hovered over her sidearm.

Thomas nearly sagged at their addition. An alliance between these two only made sense. Carson was Bates' kind of man and vice versa. Carson had him pinned as something unsavoury from the very beginning. Thomas couldn't explain how the barman knew that his name was not Kent or that he was the Thomas Barrow Bates was looking for, but it hardly mattered when the situation was as it was.

Carson settled himself amongst the dirt of the thoroughfare as though it were a grand hall and he was presiding over a great event within its walls. He turned dispassionately to Thomas and somehow drew himself to an even straighter posture. Thomas knew he was eyeing the mud that dirtied his person, so he spat at his feet. With a lifted brow, Carson merely blinked at the gesture. His voice was loud and clear as he addressed the crowd.

"As the sheriff is unavailable, I will adjudicate in this matter, allowing you to return to your day soon."

To Bates and Thomas he said, "You will start by standing back to back. I will count to the number ten, and for each number you will take one step. When I reach ten, you will turn and shoot. He who draws first and meets his target wins. Take your places, gentlemen."

Thomas couldn't move – wouldn't move to what amounted to enabling his own end any more than he already had. When Thomas didn't turn, Bates swivelled him around until their backs met.

Looking out, he saw Molesley standing next to the ginger boy he had breakfasted with, both staring at him coolly. Thomas could feel his face contort into some sort of drooping grimace, unable to withhold the turbulent panic from percolating to the surface. He was going up against one of the fastest pistoleers in the West and these were his witnesses. He looked towards Teddy who was still under gun point, looking for all the world like he would shatter he was vibrating so much. Thomas shook his head again, hoping that Teddy knew better than to try anything stupid.

In the unbearable wait before Carson began his count, Thomas thought of all of the steps he had taken to escape the Crawleys, and how they had only led him here, with only ten more paces ahead of him. He looked down to his hand to find them shaking, his ears focusing on the rattle of the intricate parts of metal that made up his pistol and finding it strange. Cradling the gun in his left hand, he released the catch and slipped two fingers through it to push the cylinder out.

His stomach dropped – no bullets.

His eyes met Teddy's involuntarily at the discovery, and he saw that Bates' man still stood behind Teddy. With muddied fingers cold and distant from the rest of him, he fumbled the cylinder back in its clutch and transferred it back into his right hand. He waited for the count, hopelessly stunned by the ease with which his life had completely crumbled to shit.

"One,"

Thomas jerked at the first number, lurching a knee forward and feeling the ground rush up to meet his foot.

"Two,"

His breath quickened, chest tightening to covet each lungful until it was hard to suck in oxygen.

"Three,"

His chest throbbed with an erratic heartbeat, the strength of which made it hard to lift his foot.

"Four,"

Another step and he began to pant against the molten churn of his guts.

"Five,"

Above him the sun burned unbearably hot. He found his mouth suddenly dry and his tongue swollen, and Thomas struggled to swallow what little saliva hadn't turned to glue in his cheeks.

"Six,"

The weight of the gun threatened the grip of his sweaty palm – heavier now than it had ever been when it was loaded.

"Seven,"

The crisp particulars of the number was lost, as he had been submerged into a dense bog that filled his ears until only the sound of dread, pulsing in thick wooshes, could be heard.

"Eight," Another number distorted, as he took his eighth step.

He stared wide and unblinkingly ahead, the vision of the people and the town and the dirt lost to his inner focus, fixed on the tempest within. This was happening.

"Nine,"

This was happening.

"Ten!"

Thomas turned and lifted his gun uselessly, barely looking towards Bates twenty paces before him. His finger curled around the trigger.

He was on his back before he heard the crack of the bullet, back meeting the mud with a squelch as its wetness accepted his weight. Without knowing the exact length of time, Thomas saw, heard, and felt nothing. Then, as a shrill ringing at his ears slowly grew in intensity, a sharp pain developed in his chest.

He coughed up something wet and metallic, having to blink against the spray that found itself on his face. A gasp, loud and vulnerable, ripped out of him. It was the last deep lungful he managed, as a deep burn ignited along his chest, setting fire to his ribs and melting his lungs. He grasped at the mud until sluiced between his fingers, then lifted them to his chest.

He couldn't breathe.

He tried, but each pant was too shallow to do anything but jar his screaming chest.

He couldn't breathe.

Bates towered over him, looking grim yet satisfied as Thomas flapped his mouth open and close below him. He crushed what little air remained in his lungs by lifting a dirtied boot to the wound and pressing his weight down. Thomas wheezed a keening moan.

"You should've known better, Thomas." He looked at the circle of blood expanding on Thomas' vest and then he was gone.

His eyes rolled against the growing grey in the world. When he focused them next, Teddy was beside him, kneeling in the mud. Sharp pain exploded in his chest as Teddy pushed away his hands and pressed his own against the bullet wound. All of his breath left his lungs with a groan.

"Fuck, Thomas,"

Thomas felt so tired and heavy that watching Teddy tremble above made him feel exhausted. He closed his eyes, his lips rippling when he realised he could still feel him quiver through the hands that braced his chest.

"Hey—look at me,"

His voice indignant and curt just like the night that they met. It made Thomas open his eyes and looked at the farrier, taking in the deep crease between his brows and the watery look to his eyes.

"Talk to me. You're alright."

"You were right, Teddy," He regretted speaking before he even finished his thought but something made him continue, "One less desperate man ravaging California."

He smiled at the thought and then grimaced as his throat constricted, revealing red stained teeth as fluid – blood, he knew, of course – caught in his lungs. It was hard to focus on Teddy with the taste of pennies in his mouth – difficult to even feel where his hands met his chest – as everything grew distant and hazy. For a moment, he struggled to remember why he was lying in the mud or why it was so hard to breathe. Something was making Teddy babble and shiver above him.

His eye slid shut against the darkness and remembered. This was happening.

He couldn't breathe.


End file.
